The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie
Chapter 5
The Man With Words On His Face

Inside: Two stories, an entry, and the acquisition of JM Barrie's of a grand idea which you'll find out more about in the next chapter.

A/N: Last chapter was mostly factual. Read Neverland's Sparrow's review reply for more. I found another cool fact bout the creation of Wendy...

BARRIEFACT: JM Barrie knew a little girl, Margaret Henley, who died when she was six years old. She called him her "friendy" and she had a lisp, so she'd always say "my fwendy" or "wendy," and so, after she died, JM made her immortal in a way by naming his heroine in his play Wendy.

I hope this chapter was well worth the wait! ;-)

OoOoO

Sunlight poured through the windows of the parlor. James had forgotten to draw the curtains the night before, and now was woken up at seven o'clock by the intrusive light cutting through his eyelids like a hot scalpel. He squeezed his eyes shut at first, and then opened them slowly. Groaning, he began to pick his head up, but something was ripping at his face. He looked at what might be causing this, and found the top page of his journal stuck to his cheek. James peeled it off and looked at it, to see only vague pictures of words remaining. He felt his face, and found it was sticky. Clearly, he had fallen asleep on wet ink.

He forced himself up, closed his journal, and brought it upstairs to the bathroom with him. In the mirror he saw small fragments of his own sentences on his face. "Better than", "everyone did just", "all the folks", "every time they." Frowning, he picked up a cloth and a cake of perfume scented soap, and after running both under water, began to scrub at his cheek. After a while of very little success in completely erasing the ink, and only making the background of the text a deep red, James gave up and went to his room to change into a clean outfit. Once he did, he went down the hall in the direction of the boys' room. Familiar chattering and bustling was heard from behind the door - a good sign, since the boys all had to get to school, so James decided to enter.

"Uncle Jim!" came Jack's voice. He pushed through George and Michael, who were both hovering over the furthest bed from the door, and over to James. "It's Peter - he won't get out of bed. He says he's not going to school." The older man looked up at George and Michael across the room, tapping his cane with the dog head ornament on the floor, then back at Jack.

"Well, you can tell Peter that it's fine if he doesn't want to go to school, but he does have to get decent and washed and meet me downstairs in ten minutes."

"Do I have to go to school, Uncle Jim?" Jack asked hopefully.

"Aye, you do. Because little boys who are able to go to school without the weight of other people's meaningless words stuffed in their little ears should go to school." James and Jack both looked in Peter's direction, but the boy himself remained still and silent under the safety of his comforter.

"So I expect the rest of you downstairs in five minutes. Porthos - " James tapped his thigh with his free hand. "Get over here, and drop Michael's underwear." Porthos, who had been sitting under the window, whined and hung his head guiltfully, opened his mouth, dropped the cloth, and licked his lips to get the moistness to return to them. George pat his head, and the dog walked out the bedroom door.

"Ten minutes, Peter. I know you can hear me."

OoOoO

James paced in the foyer in front of the front door, tapping his cane and looking at the clock on his wall frequently. Porthos sat there watching his master, his eyes moving back and forth, much like a pendulum. Once James noticed this, he stopped to look at the dog, who whined and licked his nose.

"You better not be staring at this, Porthos," he said, tapping the ink on his right cheek. Porthos barked, and James smiled.

"As long as you admit it, there's no harm done." He directed his attention at the top of the stairs, where Peter was standing, dressed in a black vest, knickers, and stockings, with a brown jacket over it, and his cap on his head. His shoes were polished and shined brightly, the gold buckles on them just as shimmery.

"Did they leave already?" he asked after a few moments, resting his hand on the banister and his expression nothing but seriousness. This reminded James of a certain woman he used to know. He fixed his face in the same fashion, careful though, so it didn't look mocking.

"Yes, they did." Peter looked out the window next to the door, then said, "Where are we going? To the park?" James nodded.

"Aye."

"Why?"

"A few reasons."

"Name them." James raised his eyebrows. "I want to talk to you," he said.

"Is that all?"

"I want to write. I need to write something for a friend of mine...at the orphanage. She'll be losing a tooth soon." Peter nodded knowingly (after all, if James and his grandmother weren't taking care of him, he'd be at the orphanage himself) and began walking down the stairs.

"It's better than having to go to school," he muttered.

"You'll have to go tomorrow," James said. Peter spun around on his heel and looked up the few inches he was lacking to being the same height as his guardian. "You can't make me."

"I made you stay home."

"I wanted to stay home." There was a pause. "What's on your face?"

"I believe it says "Better than everyone did just all the folks every time they came to town"," James responded, thinking if the fractured sentences put together made any sense at all. Peter stared, trying to figure out what could have happened, but shook his head and opened the door when he couldn't.

"Ay - Porthos," James called. The dog got up and James followed the two out of the house.

OoOoO

Porthos seldomly needed a leash. He knew to follow James, and never had any urge to run away. The only time he'd find himself on a leash was going to the park, where all dogs were required to be on leashes. His tongue hung out of his mouth, with what looked like a smile on his face, as his head snapped around in all directions, anxious to see every angle of town. He was walking next to James, with Peter on the other side of him, who was trying to keep a low profile in case someone he knew from somewhere spotted him.

Once they reached the park, James found his bench unoccupied, as it always was. He sat himself down, Peter sliding on next to him, and Porthos laying down with his nose in the snow, watching the overdressed residents of the city. James watched them as well for a while, then took his journal out of his coat pocket, and opened it to the next blank page.

"What are you writing about for your friend at the orphanage?" Peter asked. James was a bit startled by this, and looked at the boy.

"I'm not sure yet. You could help me if you'd like," he responded with a bit of a smile. Peter shook his head, and took out his own leather bound book and a pen.

"it's alright. I've got a few things of my own I need to write down." The author smiled, watching the youth begin to write. At least he had an idea. James himself was blank. So he searched his surroundings for inspiration as he often did when encountering writer's block. Or any other time for that matter. He almost always watched people when he went places. Sometimes he'd be sitting on his bench with absolutely no idea in his mind to write about, at times like now, and a couple, or a group of women would come sit next to him and start talking. Then he would start writing. Writing down everything they said, everything they did. Then he'd read it all over later and use parts in whatever project he was working on at that time. Women were the best to listen to. They talked the most, and about, what James thought, were the strangest things.

But nothing like that happened now. Though after scanning the park, he did find that there was someone. An older woman. She was sitting on a bench underneath a tree only a few feet away. A book was in her hand. James couldn't see what the title was, but it was big. The mystery woman sat up straight, her face a mix of what seemed like jealousy and seriousness. Her right hand held the book, while her left sat in her lap. She wore a long dark purple dress, with a matching bonnet that tied under her chin with a black ribbon, and gloves that were adorned with the most perfect lace. Her black leather boots looked to reach her knees, and were tied with leather string up the sides as tight as a young lady's corset. Comical, yet serious, this character was. So James wrote about her. Everything about her. Right down to the gray curls pinned up into her bonnet...

Winter 1904

Uncle Jim let me stay home from school today. He wanted to go to the park, so naturally I accompanied him. He's sitting next to me on this bench. His hand is flying. How does he think of things? Ideas and things; how does he do it? I sit down and nothing ever comes to me. But he's always thinking of something, it seems. If I were to enter his mind, I would surely become completely lost. Twists and turns and words I've never heard of, and sentences I never even knew could be made.

He keeps looking up at this woman. She looks as though she's just eaten an extremely smelly piece of fish to me. She just glanced over here. She's looking a bit uncomfortable. Maybe it's the fact that she's being stared at and written about in some man's journal...

And indeed the woman was getting uncomfortable. James would look up frequently, taking in every inch of the woman and writing about it. She looked away from her book, and the two made eye contact for a second. He looked away quickly, scribbling down his latest discovery, and she squirmed in her heavy dress.

She's seen me now. Fidgety, this one...

James looked up, having heard the slamming of a rather large book. The woman was getting up now, heading through the snow and over to the bench. Once she got there, she stopped dead in front of the two, her arms crossed over the book, which now could be made out as MacBeth. James and Peter both looked up at her, as though they weren't doing anything wrong at all. Peter had, and would admit, that he too had begun to describe the woman in detail, though not as much detail he was sure that his Uncle Jim was going into.

"You know," she began, in a deep voice that wouldn't suit a woman in the least bit. "Writers can be particularly intimidating sort of people."

"And what would make you come to that conclusion, Madam?" James said politely.

"Watching you for the past few minutes," she responded, not taking her eyes off of him, as though he were about to jump up and run off at any moment.

"Ah. I see. And suppose the writer was writing about you?"

"Well I suppose that would make him increasingly intimidating then." She looked down at the journal in this man's lap. His handwriting was especially difficult to read when he had hit inspiration, so reading it upside down would be almost entirely impossible. "What are you writing about me?"

"A writer keeps to himself, Madam. They write down their thoughts, which are very personal things and ought to be kept to oneself. If everyone shared their thoughts, there'd be nothing to write about." Peter looked at James, now listening ever more intently. The woman just stared at James, and then noticed something peculiar.

"My, my. I do say I've never met a man with words on his face before," she said, a kind of devilish smile coming to her own face.

"I must be one in a million," James said, smiling back. This even made Peter smile; maybe the first time he had done it in quite a few days.

"Well, Man With Words On His Face. I'm Elisa Babcock." She held out a gloved hand.

"J.M. Barrie." He took it in his hand and shook.

"Ah, J.M. Barrie. I've read many of your plays and novels. And not to mention seen countless. Peter Pan was my favorite, as I'm sure many have told you."

"Aye." James nodded.

"It's quite an honor to meet you in person, I must say."

"Well, thank you. It's an honor to meet you as well."

"Oh, well I can hardly say I'm one to be recognized anywhere," Elisa said, chuckling a bit.

"Meeting anyone new is an honor. No matter what their level of fame." The woman smiled.

"Interesting the way you look at it. Anyway. I must go - do you have the time?"

"Yes, yes - " James took out his pocket watch. "Quarter to eight."

"Thank you very much, Man With Words On His Face."

OoOoO

James had indeed made a mistake of telling the boys about moving in with their grandmother one day prior to doing so. Michael had nearly thrown a fit, and the looks of disappointment on George's and Jack's faces were almost unbearable to look at. Peter, with his unreadable face, only went upstairs and began to pack. And that's all they could do was pack.

He knew a man who lived in the next town who bought and sold houses. Though James wasn't sure he wanted to let go of his house just yet. Just in case the old bird decided to let go whilst they were living with her, he instructed his friend to only lease the house. The furniture would be left, but the temporary residents would be advised to take care of everything as though it was their own. The maids would stay, and Mr. Barrie would pay them, so that said residents wouldn't have to worry about things like that.

The friend wished for James to meet with the temporary residents, whom had already claimed the home, but James couldn't get time in that day. He had to pack up everything and clean with the children so that the home would be surely fit to be leased.

Since the family and the maids put together had always kept the house in complete order, the only things that needed to be cleaned were of course the boys' room, and James's desk. He spent hours on the desk in his bedroom, throwing out things he didn't want at all, and packing every paper and old journal into suitcases and boxes, until there was absolutely nothing left in it.

Later that night, after James finished gathering up everything of his from the living room, and from the library, and from all the other rooms in the house, he and Porthos, who was carrying a small vase in his mouth, walked up the stairs to his bedroom to pack it all. Then they both entered the boys' room, where Jack and Michael were tugging against each other on both ends of a pillow.

"It's mine!" Michael said through grit teeth.

"No, it's not! It was closest to my bed!" Jack responded. George straightened himself, after picking a shirt up from the floor.

"Michael found a pillow on the floor between their beds and there's one missing from both beds, so they can't tell whose it is."

"Well this is easy - we're giving all of the linens to Gloria tomorrow morning, who's washing them. They're all staying here. But before they go..." James walked over to the two boys, and took the pillow from them effortlessly, and smiled.

"What did you do that for, Uncle Jim?" Michael said. Peter, who was packing his own suitcase, looked up from it.

"For this," James said, knocking little Michael to the floor with it.

"Ouch, Uncle Jim! That hurt!" Jack smiled.

"Well, let's get him back for it!" he said.

"Oh no!" James said, backing up a bit, as the two boys both grabbed pillows off their beds. George laughed and grabbed his own.

"Charge!" Michael shouted, his little legs carrying him over to James, whom he jumped on and tackled to the floor. George and Jack could nearly die from lack of oxygen laughing at this sight. Peter even stifled a giggle, watching Michael struggle with the now unarmed man, who was also, laughing as the other boys were, barely taking a break to come up for air. Jack and George nodded at each other and joined in on the tackle, and soon the four children, not including Peter, who watched for now from the sidelines, were rolling about on the floor as though they were the happiest they could ever be, and forgetting completely that this would be the last night they would be in this house for a very long time.

A/N: So...didja like it? Halfway through, I was thinking: "wow what a filler" but after finishing and reading it over, I found that I liked it a lot! Maybe I can actually write! Well anywho...I'll try to get to finishing Chapter 6 faster. It'll be easy because I probably won't have any writer's block along the way because of all the ideas jotted down at the end of this document! If I were to mess up when copying and pasting this into a new document to upload into you'd probably see what's happening up to Chapter 8! More's on the way, keep looking!


REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 4:

emmyruth: I'm glad you like what you're reading! Thanks for reviewing! Every review is closer to five...and that makes you closer to chapter five!

Neverland's Sparrow: I was a bit confused as to who you were when I first saw your review but at the mention at your quote being used at the beginning of my story...well...I kind of figured it out lol! Thanks for the compliments and everything! And I won't say any more about what's to come...just that it does get happier. :-D And actually, that's factual, about Peter. Peter Llewelyn-Davies was very much teased in school about having Peter Pan named after him. He'd get so angry, and wouldn't even talk about the play (but called it "that terrible masterpiece" if it came up) and sometimes couldn't bring himself to talk to J.M. Barrie. Kinda sad. If you look up Peter Llewelyn-Davies on you'll find how he died if you didn't know already. Also sad. (tear)

plumsy321: Oh, you didn't sound mean, but I was just wondering if you meant the "unoriginal romantic stories" or something else. And I'll say no more about the "unoriginal romantic stories" because I have friends who write them lol. They pop up too much in here and it's quite humorous when you scroll down and you think: "let's see...who's James falling in love with this time? Oh...Robyn? (Random name)" Thanks for reading!

H.M. Chandler: My fact in here was better I think lol. I hope you thought so too. Yeah, I'm in the process of reading yours, writing mine, and reading two 6 chapter Pirates of the Caribbean stories that someone else wrote! lol...so I'll read it when I get to it. Another slow update. (facepalms) sorry...that's one request I didn't answer positively to.

Lizella: And thank you for stopping by and doing so! Although...Mrs. duMaurier gets a thumb way down from me. (barfs) lol.